


We Swear on Egg Rolls and Lamplight

by mavy1



Series: Zukka week 2020 [5]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Underage Drinking, Zukka week 2020, and they were roommates... oh my god they were roommates, technically speaking anyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-27
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24940834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mavy1/pseuds/mavy1
Summary: zukka week day 7 - roommates“You know, all I really wanted to do tonight was get kinda drunk and watch a kids movie.” He moves his hand to his forehead, balancing on it a can Zuko hadn’t noticed before of some kind of cheap ginger beer one of Sokka’s co-workers had brought over a few weeks ago. “I already started drinking, too.”“Well, we could still do that. We’d just have to get a little more creative, that’s all”Or, Sokka and Zuko's adventures in getting drunk, empty theaters, and a lot more than they bargained for.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Series: Zukka week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608226
Comments: 25
Kudos: 492





	We Swear on Egg Rolls and Lamplight

There was no indication that anything was amiss, when Zuko first stepped from the muggy heat of the early evening into the cool, airconditioned lobby of his apartment building. No one at the front desk spared any words of warning for him as he flashed his university-issued ID at them on his way by. Apart from the usual clunk of the elevator somewhere between the fourth and fifth floors, a sound that had alarmed him at first, but by now was old news, nothing seemed to be any different. Even the harsh fluorescence of the hall lights revealed nothing.

But when Zuko unlocks his door to step into the tiny kitchen he shares with his roommate, Sokka, to find it almost completely dark and a good deal warmer than the hallway he had just come from, he knows.

“Zuko? Is that you?” Sokka calls from his bedroom. “The fucking power is out _again_!”

Zuko pushes the door to Sokka’s room open fully, letting a shaft of light from his open window stream out into the kitchen. He finds Sokka sprawled out on his bed, already having changed from his work clothes into an old blue tank top and a pair of shorts just a little too short for Zuko’s liking – that is they would be if he had to be the one to wear them.

“I can see that.” He says. Sokka looks up at him from behind dark lashes, wearing a sour pout, and Zuko has to stifle a laugh.

Zuko steps out of Sokka’s room and into his own, and hears Sokka groan, “fucking _Howard_ , man!” and this time he does laugh.

“Yeah, my uncle’s convinced they just don’t pay their power bill, and that’s why this keeps happening.” The sun is already beginning to set, and Zuko has to open his window to give himself any light. He unbuttons his stiff shirt and slips out of his pants in favour of something more comfortable and far cooler. He’s still pulling on his t-shirt as he strolls back into Sokka’s room, who doesn’t seem to have moved an inch since Zuko arrived.

“You good, man?”

“What a brilliant way to end an _exceptional_ work week.”

Zuko snorts. “I thought you _liked_ your job!”

“I do. But even the best jobs suck when you spend 8 full hours arguing with your computer and still have nothing to show for it.” Sokka retorts dryly.

“Fair enough.”

Zuko strolls to the far end of Sokka’s bed, perching on its edge, his back to the window. When Sokka cranes his neck to watch him, he ends up giving himself a rather unattractive double chin, and Zuko can’t help himself but smile. He drops his hand to Sokka’s shin, giving it what he hopes is a sympathetic and encouraging squeeze.

“I’m sorry.”

Sokka sighs. “You know, all I really wanted to do tonight was get kinda drunk and watch a kids movie.” He moves his hand to his forehead, balancing on it a can Zuko hadn’t noticed before of some kind of cheap ginger beer one of Sokka’s co-workers had brought over a few weeks ago. “I already started drinking, too.”

Zuko watches a drop of condensation roll its way down the can and settle onto Sokka’s forehead. He’s mildly amused at Sokka’s idea of how to best unwind after a long week, but he can’t say he’s really surprised. And if this is what Sokka’s problem is, then Zuko knows how to solve it.

“Well, we could still do that. We’d just have to get a little more creative, that’s all” With a sly grin, Zuko hops off the bed and disappears back into the dark kitchen.

“Hey! Close the fridge, you’re letting all the cold air out! And I do not want to get up tomorrow morning and find all our food spoiled!”

Zuko returns holding a frosty, half-full bottle of white rum he had procured from their freezer where it had been waiting since his 21st birthday a few weeks ago, nearly untouched. He unscrews the cap and hands it to Sokka.

“We’ll just have to get you drunk before we leave, that’s all.”

Sokka smiles, and takes a swig straight from the bottle, since they own about three glasses combined, none of which happen to be particularly useful as shot glasses. Technically, he shouldn’t be drinking at all. Not legally, anyways. But according to Sokka, since he was only visiting this country with uncharacteristically strict drinking laws, and he’d been legal in his own for several years already, Zuko shouldn’t feel guilty about sharing with him. Not that Zuko actually felt any guilt about that to begin with. Besides, Sokka had only missed the mark by a few months. Sokka, for his part, claimed he wasn’t even much of a drinker back home, but suddenly being told he couldn’t do something usually so benign apparently activated some rebellious side in him.

Zuko takes the bottle from Sokka, and it briefly occurs to him that he’s never actually drank straight liquor before. Uncle Iroh had never been particularly strict with letting Zuko experiment with alcohol before what is technically allowed, and apparently it had resulted in rather tame drinking habits, seeing as there was no need to do any rebellious and questionable shots in the dark corners of the house parties of strangers. Or maybe he had just never been invited to that kind of party.

Either way when Zuko knocks back his first swallow it leaves him coughing and sputtering. He knows how to do this in theory – just relax and let it slide down your throat. In practice, it’s apparently a little more easily said then done. It still burns though. And the taste, while not awful, is far from pleasant.

He hands the bottle back to Sokka, who’s chuckling at him. “You’re not very good at this, are you?”

“Well we can’t all be perfect at everything like you, Sokka.”

Sokka smiles again, and Zuko watches, spellbound, as he tips his head back, wraps his perfect lips firmly around the mouth of the bottle, and drinks, long and slow. Zuko can tell the slowly growing heat of the room is warming his skin by the way his fingertips leave delicate indentations in the frost on the chilled glass, and by the sweat gathering on his brow, and along his collar and neck. He’s not sure if it’s the heat, or the alcohol, or something else entirely, that’s raising the heat of a blush to his own cheeks.

When Sokka finishes, he wipes his mouth deliberately with the back of his hand, turning abruptly to fix his burning gaze on Zuko, who knows he’s been caught staring. He doesn’t seem phased, however, so Zuko hopes Sokka won’t fault him for it.

In truth, this isn’t the first time he’s looked at Sokka like this. Even that first night, when Zuko had returned from a long supply run rather late to find a sleepy, pajama-clad Sokka had moved into their dorm in his absence, it had been impossible not to notice how handsome he is. But Zuko had met his fair share of handsome men in his life, and he never seemed to have the same problem with any of them as he has with Sokka. Because it isn’t just that Sokka is handsome – gorgeous, really. It’s that Sokka is also brilliant, and funny, and passionate, and caring. And that, even after just shy of two months together, he understands Zuko in a way he’s sure no one had before. And even from the beginning, Sokka had never exactly been stingy with his affection. It drives Zuko crazy, when Sokka throws an arm around his shoulders so casually, burst into his room half-dressed and shower-damp for the most trivial of reasons, or, and perhaps especially, when Sokka crowds up behind him at the stove, breathing heavy at his neck and demanding a taste of whatever it is Zuko is cooking. It’s actually almost necessary, given how tiny their kitchen really is, if they both want to be in there at the same time. It’s just that, Zuko can never exactly figure out why Sokka _needs_ to be in there just then. 

The two of them trade drinks back and forth a few more times before Sokka takes the bottle rather deliberately from Zuko, stashing it back in the freezer with the melting ice cubes and the thawing peas.

“But I don’t feel anything yet!” Zuko argues.

“Don’t worry,” Sokka assures with a chuckle. “You will.”

Zuko hears Sokka fumbling with his keys as he himself struggles to slip his shoes on without bending to undo the laces. Once he’s managed it, they make their way in relative silence down to the lobby in the clunky elevator and step back out into the still sweltering heat of the night.

They haven’t made it to the end of the block before Sokka turns to Zuko, eyes a little glazed and smile slightly crooked, and declares, “I probably shouldn’t have drunk so much on an empty stomach,” rather sheepishly. As they walk he loops his arm around Zuko’s to steady himself, and Zuko’s skin burns under his palm.

By the time they reach the metro station about ten minutes later, he thinks he starts to feel it in his legs. Or maybe he feels something less than usual. Either way, he choses to stand still while riding the escalator. He _choses_ it. It’s not like he _had_ to. It was _his choice._

_Yeah. Right._

It doesn’t take long for the train to arrive, and mercifully it’s mostly empty when it does. Sokka remains stuck to Zuko’s side for the entire ride despite the abundance of available space and empty seats, and Zuko begins to think it might just be because Sokka’s apparently an affectionate drunk – and not specifically because he needs help staying upright and maintaining the appearance of sobriety.

Though Sokka’s all giggles and loud teasing as they walk to the theater, Zuko notices him go deliberately quiet as they step inside. He walks directly to the girl at the counter of the empty box office and buys two tickets in the most level tone of voice Zuko has ever heard him use. Maybe it’s just him, but it sounds so fucking fake and staged that he thinks if anything it’s _more_ conspicuous than Sokka’s usual boisterous tone. Or maybe, he thinks, it’s just that he misses that Sokka, as stupid as that is.

Luckily for him he doesn’t have to wait long to see him again. At the concession Sokka orders the biggest tub of popcorn Zuko has ever seen (complete with extra butter and the specific instruction of “ _and make sure you layer it – do I look like an amateur to you?”_ ), a gigantic slushy that is so radioactively blue it couldn’t have been designed with any other purpose than staining its drinker’s tongue, and four hot dogs – because apparently hot dogs are drunk Sokka’s weakness - that information is conveyed to Zuko via Sokka whispering directly into his ear as he leans against the counter waiting for their order to be filled.

Finally, they make it to their seats, and Zuko thinks he may finally be out of danger when he looks around and realizes they are entirely and completely alone. Apparently, a three-week-old children’s movie is not the most popular attraction at 10:30 on a Friday night. Go figure. He hopes maybe at least a few more people will filter in as the trailers roll. They don’t.

Suddenly, he’s a little bit tipsy and a lot foolish and alone in a dark theater with a beautiful boy he’s barely been able to keep his eyes or even his hands off who he will definitely be going home with at the end of the night but, _tragically_ , not in that way.

He swallows hard. And prays for strength.

* * *

The problem, Sokka thinks, with drinking on an empty stomach, is that half-way through the movie you’re watching, you’ll start to sober up and realize just how terrible it actually is. Some soulless remake of something actually decent from twenty years ago wouldn’t have been his first choice of film experience, but it doesn’t really matter. Because he also realizes, it’s about the last thing on his mind.

The first time his hand makes contact with Zuko’s over popcorn in the darkened theater, it’s an accident. He can feel Zuko start and jerk away, but it still sends a thrill through him that has nothing to do with what’s happening on screen. He doesn’t take particular care to avoid Zuko’s touch after that, resting his arm against Zuko’s from elbow to pinky on the armrest between them, though he doesn’t try what he really wants and move the armrest all together so he can slide closer. He knows that would be a little much for Zuko. And the last thing he wants is to make him uncomfortable.

Maybe he does spend the remainder of the runtime watching Zuko from the corner of his eye. And if he does it’s because he’s far more interesting – the closest thing to a real masterpiece Sokka has ever seen, and he’s been to his fair share of museums and galleries in his life – and far lovelier than anything that could be shown in a theater. Especially from this angle.

Sokka is seated to Zuko’s right, and from this vantage point, the lines of his body are softened by flickering lights, casting deep shadow under his cheekbone and lower lip, slightly puffed from where Zuko has bitten it absent mindedly, and Sokka can hardly see the edges of the scar that marks his other side. It’s not that Sokka minds the scar exactly. To him it’s just a part of Zuko, like the way his voice gets rough with sleep late at night, the tangle of thick black hair that falls into his eyes no matter how hard he tries to contain it, the purple-blue veins Sokka has noticed on the backs of his hands when he crosses his arms. But Sokka knows the scar is a painful memory for him, and for a moment, Sokka can almost imagine the weight that would be lifted from his shoulders, if it weren’t there. But then again, Zuko is pretty good at walking with that weight. Years of practice had perfected his posture for it, and Sokka admires the strength he had developed because of it, even if he still wishes he could have spared him from it to begin with.

There’s really no denying it. Zuko is beautiful. Flat-out, straight-forward, incredibly, irrevocably beautiful.

Sokka would swoon. If he weren’t already sitting down.

By the time the movie lets out, it’s Zuko’s turn to cling to Sokka for support, and they make their way outside rather slowly. The night air is still hot, but now unusually quiet for such a busy area. The empty square is lit by neon signs and the dim glow from the few surrounding businesses still open at this late hour. It’s peaceful, then Zuko blurts –

“ _God_ I could really go for some Chinese food right about now.”

Sokka laughs, and squeezes Zuko’s arm.

“Well we _are_ in Chinatown…”

_“I need eggrolls Sokka!”_

“Okay, okay! God, who do you think you are, _me?_ ” Sokka glances over at Zuko, finding a look he’s definitely never seen on his face before. God it’s cute. Who the hell taught Zuko _puppy-dog eyes?_

Oh.

That would be Sokka.

“Alright already! We’ll see what we can do, okay?”

It turns out to be surprisingly easy to find somewhere open even at nearly one in the morning, even if it is stuffed into a dim basement. Inside it’s nearly empty, with only one slightly tired looking but friendly woman who takes their order and two kids who are probably her children colouring at a nearby table. It takes a few minutes to get their food, and once they’re back outside Sokka checks his watch.

“Shit! We’ve got to go _right now_ , we’re going to miss the train!”

He grabs Zuko by the hand and pulls him into the street – there’s no traffic at this hour, thank god – and the two run down the block as fast as their tired and still slightly intoxicated feet will take them.

Zuko’s laughing as they stumble down the escalator. There’s really no need to run anymore. If the last train had come and gone already, the station would be closed up, but they do anyways. By the time they reach the platform they’re both out of breath and panting, but Zuko’s still smiling from ear to ear. Sokka likes him this way – happy, his guard down, and his fingers still inexplicably laced with Sokka’s.

Sokka swallows hard, pushing down the half-formed thoughts in his head and ignoring the aching in his chest and butterflies in his stomach. He hands the take-out to Zuko, who heartbreakingly lets go of his hand to take it.

“Your cuisine, your highness.” Fuck. What a stupid thing to say. Sokka barely manages to keep himself from smacking his own forehead. Luckily, Zuko doesn’t seem to notice.

_“Oh, fuck yeah.”_ He hears him whisper to himself as he tears open the greasy paper bag full of egg rolls, and Sokka can’t help but smile despite himself. The satisfied groan Zuko lets out when he bites into one should be made illegal, in Sokka’s opinion.

The final train of the night pulls in a few minutes later, and Zuko’s still so engrossed by his food Sokka has to grab him by the shirt and drag him aboard. They’re fairly quiet as they ride, Zuko munching on his egg rolls and Sokka taking a fork to some fried rice sacrilegiously. But to be fair, there’s less potential for mess that way, and technically they shouldn’t be eating on the train at all. Not that there’s anyone around to tell. Getting off a few stops later and trudging back to the surface makes Sokka realize how tired he feels. He wishes the breeze were cooler than it is, especially when Zuko links their arms together again as they walk. But it’s the first time _Zuko_ has been the one to reach for _Sokka_ , and no way temperatures any lower than those on the surface of the sun would make him give this up.

The streetlights hum contentedly. The cicadas are chirping just as they always are. Sokka thinks it’s a wonder, what with all the screaming they do, that he still wouldn’t be able to say what they looked it. But then again, just because something is loud, doesn’t mean you can recognize it, he supposes. Life’s funny like that.

In the three blocks back to their dorm, Sokka focuses mainly on Zuko’s feet, stepping in time with his own. It occurs to him that Zuko must be adjusting his strides for Sokka because, because while Sokka’s slightly taller, Zuko’s all legs, and Sokka usually has to move more quickly to keep up with him. Tonight, though, he’s having no trouble.

Just outside the courtyard, Zuko spots the burger joint down the street, and finally breaks their comfortable silence.

“I’m going for fries, you wanna come?”

Sokka grins, but before he’s able to comment on Zuko’s apparently hollow leg or jump at his chance to spent just a little longer together, his stupid tired brain is talking for him.

“Nah, man, I’m pretty wiped. I’ll see you upstairs, okay?”

Zuko shrugs. Then nods. “Alright.”

But Sokka lingers, wishing he has said something else, and worried Zuko still isn’t quite sober enough to make the block long trip by himself.

“You’ll… be alright?”

Zuko snorts. “Yeah man.” He smiles. “Bit of a worry wort, aren’t you?”

Sokka rolls his eyes as Zuko walks away, but once he’s out of earshot he sighs. “Not usually. Just for you.” He murmurs.

Back upstairs he unties his shoes sluggishly, kicking them to the side and flopping down on his bed face-first. He fully intends to wallow in peace until Zuko gets back, but it feels like no sooner has he laid down than he hears the quiet patter of the beginnings of a rainstorm against his window.

Shit. Sit, shit, _shit. How_ had he not noticed storm clouds the entire way home? Shit. Zuko definitely hadn’t brought an umbrella, or even a jacket with him to the theater. Once the rain really set in, he would be soaked.

Groaning, Sokka drags himself off the bed again, grabbing his umbrella and cramming on his shoes as he runs for the door.

* * *

It’s really coming down now. Raining like it’s trying to start a forty-day flood because of _course_ it is. As Sokka sprints down the sidewalk water splashes into his shoes, soaking his socks, but it doesn’t matter. He spots him half-way down the block, holding his arm over his head as if that could stop the rain at all. Reaching him, he opens the umbrella over both their heads, and they both stop dead in their tracks.

They’re standing awfully close together under Sokka’s little umbrella, and despite, or perhaps because of, his best efforts, their both soaked to their skins. But Sokka’s mouth has gone dry. Zuko’s looking him over slowly, deliberately, confusion furrowing his brow.

“Sokka… what – what are you doing out here?”

“Well I just – I didn’t want you to get all wet.”

Zuko chuckles. That had worked out well, clearly. It’s then he notices Sokka’s shoes.

“Hey. Your shoes are untied.”

Sokka looks down at his own shoes, and with both of them staring at the ground, huddled together, felling Zuko’s breath on his damp skin – if Zuko moved just a little closer –

“Yeah, I suppose they are.”

“Well that won’t do, clumsy.” Zuko kneels down on the wet pavement and takes the laces in his hands, and even he can’t understand why.

“Zuko, you don’t have to –“

“Shh.” Zuko hisses insistently.

“Don’t you usually double knot these, Mr. careful?”

“Umm… yeah.” It’s an odd thing, that. For Zuko to know it about Sokka. “I guess I was in a hurry.”

Zuko hums in return as he finishes tying the laces. He stands, still remarkably close to Sokka. Close enough to smell his deodorant and the scent of fresh laundry that always seems to cling to him. Zuko suspects that maybe Sokka just uses too much detergent. Still, it’s kind of nice. Even if it means Sokka isn’t the best at doing laundry.

Unable to find his tongue inside his mouth to say anything decent, Zuko pushes a paper bag into Sokka’s hands.

“I got you a burger. I figured you might want one.” He says rather lamely.

“I, uh… thanks.” Is all Sokka can supply in return. He feels oddly winded. He shouldn’t be. It was less than a block of running to meet Zuko – as if he didn’t know the real reason for the tightness in his chest.

They ride upstairs in the noisy elevator one last time for the night, and inside their apartment Sokka finally realizes the power still isn’t back on. He opens the blinds in his room to let in what little light the street has to offer, and strips off his wet shirt and shorts for some pajamas. He hears Zuko fumbling around in the dark outside, and goes to his aid. Grabbing a towel, he throws it over Zuko’s head, who squawks as Sokka sets to drying his hair.

“Hey! Be careful!”

“What, worried I’ll ruin your handsome emo boy band look somehow by drying your hair?”

“No! And I don’t look like that.” He grumbles.

Sokka drapes the towel around his neck, giving his now fluffy hair a ruffle for good measure. “Whatever you say.” He digs his fingers into the plush fabric of the towel, and now it’s his turn to remind himself that ogling your shirtless roommate is bad practice.

But you know what? Fuck it. He’s caught Zuko doing the same to him more than once, and if Zuko’s allowed then why the hell isn’t he?

And Zuko might be dense. He might be oblivious. But hell, he’s not quite _that_ stupid.

He is, however, _scared_. It would be so easy right now, to close his eyes and lean in. Let Sokka kiss him stupid and senseless. He thinks he probably would. And what a crazy idea that is. Though, really, if he’s being honest, not that crazy. But he can’t. So, he slips from his grasp, grabbing their food from the kitchen counter as he goes. He means to hand it to Sokka and say a regrettable goodnight. It would be the smart thing to do. But Sokka’s lingering in his doorway, and when he cocks his head and asks, “you coming or what?” Zuko can’t say no. When they’re finished eating Zuko sits on Sokka’s bed and stares resolutely out the window into the rain. Down to the spot where they stood together under the umbrella not too long ago. Anywhere but at Sokka.

Then he feels Sokka’s head fall unceremoniously into his lap, and he looks down at him before he can stop himself.

Sokka has shaken his hair loose, and thick strands fall across Zuko’s thigh. Zuko thinks it looks soft. Soft like Sokka’s voice. Soft like the things he always says to him when he’s feeling down, even though he doesn’t have to. Soft like his heart. He meets Sokka’s eyes, and any resolve he had to come out of this gracefully dies when he reads the affection clear in them, and in his small smile, and they way he lets them flutter shut so Zuko can breathe again. Sokka’s hair, as he suspected, is downy soft and smooth between his fingers.

Sokka, for his part, tries to burn the image of Zuko lit softly by the lamplight of the street outside into his mind for a rainy day. Or a bad day. Or a _Tuesday_. He wants to remember the way Zuko’s hands in his hair feel, the warmth of the hand that’s fallen to his chest and the pressure of Zuko’s thumb against his sternum, rubbing back and forth on tempo with his heartbeats. He doesn’t know how long this will last. He wishes the answer could be forever.

“Hey, Zuko?” He murmurs after a while. Zuko hums soft and warm in return.

“Will you – will you write to me once we go home?”

“You want me to write to you?” Zuko asks, confused but charmed by Sokka’s request. “Does anybody actually do that anymore.”

“No.” Sokka says. “That’s why I’m asking.”

“I just like getting mail.” He murmurs at length. “It makes me feel…” He trains off, but Zuko thinks he understands.

“Alright, Sokka. For you. Only for you. _Anything_ for you.”

Sokka smiles a small, satisfied smile. He sits up slowly, leaning in close, and placing a hand on Zuko’s chest. The tips of his fingers barely rest on his shoulder, and his thumb traces the long, sharp line of his collar bone slowly. His eyes mark a slow path over pale skin, lingering at his throat, like an artist carefully considering the next stroke of their masterpiece. Then he looks into Zuko’s eyes. And they think they can feel it in the other’s chest, somehow.

“Zuko can I - can I kiss you?” Sokka’s asking permission politely, but really it sounds like something he’s begging for, for fear of what will happen to him if he doesn’t get it. And that’s alright to Zuko. He’s happy to oblige.

“Please. God _, please do_.”

When Sokka’s lips first meet Zuko’s their press is gentle and careful, and they’re parted just slightly, and they fit together with Zuko’s like broken pieces of pottery made whole again and mended with gold. At least, it feels like gold, and the molten heat of the moment cuts it short, breaking them apart to lean against one another gasping the same air through quiet, breathy chuckles.

Then Zuko pulls him in again, and this time it’s not nearly so hesitant, or so gentle. He pulls at Sokka’s bottom lip with his teeth, and runs his hands up beneath the soft cotton of Sokka’s shirt – If Sokka gets to, then so does he. He’s rewarded by Sokka parting his lips to let Zuko taste him, feeling Sokka pull gently at his hair as he runs his hands through it, feeling more than hearing the soft moan he grants him before pulling back once more.

“Zuko,” he huffs, breathless and spent, “will you visit me? When the summer’s over I mean? Please I – I want – I _want_ –“

“Yes.” Zuko swears, and he means it. He’s never meant anything this much. Or wanted anything this badly. _“Yes.”_ He pulls Sokka in again, kissing him hard and fervently. “I’d love to. I’d really, _really_ , love to.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I know zukka week was months ago. No, I do not understand time constraints or consider that a problem.  
> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it! Feel free to let me know your thoughts here or on tumblr @backcountry-deltora!!


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